The Emperor's Greenest
by BIBOTOT
Summary: The life of a young Imperial Guard lieutenant changed forever one day. Good news: he was promoted to Lord General. Bad news: his regiment is entirely Orks. Worst news: they were thrown into war against the Necron with no prior experience. Facing cultural conflicts from within and without, they must pull themselves together and prove once and for all who are the Emperor's greenest.
1. Chapter 1

Today was a special day.

Hostfede could sense it the moment he woke up from bed. As soon as he went out for breakfast, a letter bearing great news was delivered. After almost three centuries, the charge by the Departmento Munitorum against Hammeront IV which his great great great grandfather was a commander of had been revoked. A recent investigation found that The Hammeront IV was wiped out to a man fighting the tide of Warp-spawn on the accursed world of Fallax and thus, unable to heed the order to redeploy to Prassium. Their posthumous death sentence had been lifted. His great great great grandfather, though he would be in the belly of daemons right now, would definitely glad the Imperium stopped seeing him as worthless coward and saw him as the usual expandable meat instead.

The breakfast was the best he had for years. A group of musician played as he ate. The waitresses were pretty, no doubt servants of high ranking officials of this world. After two months in hellish captivity by the Greenskins, he felt he deserved every moment of this.

But that was not all that was amazing, today was the day Hostfede finally met the very person whom he had been admiring since his childhood, Lord Militant Francis Drake, decorated hero of the Imperium, bane of aliens, slayer of heretics, saver of planets, winner of every single thumb wrestling tournament. The Lord General had personally come here to congratulate Hostfede for his action during the previous successful campaign against the vile Orks which saw them systematically and mercilessly expunged from the entire system.

"How have you been, son?" asked Lord Drake. Despite being in his one hundred twenties, he looked as vigorous as any middle age person could, mostly thanks to the juvenile treatment he received.

"I am fine now, sir," Hostfede replied. To be honest, his back still ached from the whip of his captors, but he decided not to mention that. First good impression was always the key. "Ready to serve again in the name of the Emperor."

"Glad to hear that," Lord Drake chuckled cordially. "Now tell me about your little victory over the Orks. People said it was an epic tale. How could one man make such difference where entire armies cannot? How is this that the fate of no less than five worlds was changed by the action of a single person? I want to know."

"Well, the Warboss was the one driving them all along," said Hostfede, feeling a bit nervous. He was unaccustomed to being praised. The Imperial Guards had forbiddingly strict discipline, doing something wrong would result in brief punishment while doing something right would only allow one to stand a few inches away from the Commissar. "After he's dead, the whole thing just fell apart."

"Yes," Drake agreed. "But it was you who put an end to that foul beast, didn't you?"

"Not really, sir," Hostfede replied. "I just happened to think it would be a good idea to connect twenty four rockets to the trigger of his favorite gun. I was tasked with the polishing of it every day."

"And the Nobz, you are also responsible for their death?" asked Drake. "They told me you somehow convinced the Warboss to kill them off one by one until there was no successor left to takeover."

"Warboss Bigstompa wasn't very much a bright one," Hostfede admitted. "He was paranoid. I fed to that, filling his mind with constant thought of insecurity and an imminent overthrow. He did what I implanted him to."

"But still, it was you who masterminded it all along, am I right?" Drake insisted.

"Yes, sir," said Hostfede.

"Very well," said Drake, satisfied. "Then it is without any regret that I now pronounce you, Lord General Alfred Hostfede of the Astra Militarum. Congratulation, son. High Command sent me here to welcome you to the rank. Anything to say about this?"  
>Hostfede was in complete shock over what the Lord Militant just said. Regardless what his achievements were, regardless the heroism and devotion he displayed, climbing up the hierarchical ladder within the Imperial Guards was based on seniority, length of service and combat experience. He had none of that. He was twenty five and a Lieutenant. This was his first campaign since his graduation from Scholar Progenium. Such promotion was unheard of, if not nonsensical.<p>

"There has got to be a mistake, sir," Hostfede stammered. "I…I…don't'…"

"Don't like that," said Drake cheerfully. "You are a Lord General now. Isn't that the dream of every person of the Imperial Guards, to finally have the power to lead an entire regiment of men into battle, to sit back and relax while others die in the Emperor's name on your order?"

"That is indeed my dream, sir," said Hostfede. "But I wished for it to happen within the next thirty years or so, not right now. I really can't do this. I am just too young."

The Lord Militant had a deep sigh. Hostfede was worried he might have offended him when Drake continued, "May I push this conversation a bit into less formal territory, if you are alright with, of course?"

"Go ahead, sir," Hostfede braced himself.

"Listen to what I have to say and listen carefully," said Drake, his voice all of a sudden somber. It made the hair on the back of Hostfede's neck raise. "We were eating shit back then. I wasn't there myself, but from the report I can draw the picture. The lines were stretched thin. Supplies were running low. Our asses got constantly kicked, one time after another. The Orks outnumbered us ten to one. They were victorious, and we were losing. But wait, there is still hope, for a company of Space Marines are on the way," Drake's tone changed to irony at this point. "Who could have the strength to save the planets from the clutch of the Orks other than the finest warriors of the Imperium, the Adeptus Astartes? And what will happen to all the men and women of the Imperial Guards who fought bravely there apart from some footnotes? That has happened countless time, and it would have happened here had you not intervene. For once, we managed to win in half the estimate time and at 60 percent lower casualties than expected. But most of all, we proved that we could stand on our own and still triumph without the aid of the superhuman Space Marines. Now, do you see?"

"I do, sir," Hostfede replied, realizing his promotion was on the ground of politics all along. With the way the Imperial Guards worked, it was impossible to refuse this one, less he angered a lot of people at the top which he really hoped he did not.

"You are a monumental man, Hostfede," Drake continued. "And monumental men cannot be wasted at the bottom. We need them at the top. No more question, you are to be a Lord General, like it or not. Got that?"

"Yes, sir," said Hostfede begrudgingly.

Drake nodded. "Very well. Your regiment has already been chosen. Due to…uhm, technical difficulties, we could not get their representative here. I will introduce you to them once we get abroad. Get ready yourself, we are moving out to Dorian 7th where a Necron Tomb has just been discovered. Other Guard regiments are also on the way. Wouldn't want to miss the fun, would you?"

Hostfede sighed. Another mission, another enemy, another war. All for the glory of the Imperium and He on Throne. The call of duty just never ceased. He was hero here, but in the next warzone, he might be dead man.

So much for a special day, he thought.

* * *

><p>The boarding took place five days later, just enough for Hostfede to savior the luxury of life on the planet Taurok whose population was grateful for his contribution in repelling the Orkish invaders. As the ship took off, Lord Militant Francis Drake took him to the barrack where the new regiment was awaiting his leadership.<p>

"This regiment was recently formed, by the order of the High Lords of Terra themselves," Drake explained. "They don't have an official name yet, so come up with something when you meet. Also, many of them have served the Imperium for a period, so you might find some important contact and advisers there."

The corridor leading to this particular barrack was empty and separated from the rest of the ship as though it had been abandoned by its crew for some reason. The floor was filthy. Some of the pipes were clearly leaking. Navy staff seemed to have rarely been here, probably even avoiding it, at least for the last few months.

Why?

"How are they like?" Hostfede asked. Little did he know he was going to regret himself for his curiosity.

"Well," said the Lord Militant as the two reached a massive door. "Why don't you find it out yourself?"

The door opened. Hostfede jerked a step back. He thought he was in some sort of nightmare. When pinching his own cheek did not help, he began to think this was a practical joke the general was playing on him, but a sober look on Drake canceled that. Hostfede watched in horror at sight laid before him. His face was green, but that was a far cry from the contents of that chamber.

Orks.

Orks.

More Orks.

Orks' vehicles.

Some Gretchin.

A banana bundle.

Hostfede loved banana. The only problem was, in order to get to his prize, he had to make his way through ranks of Greenskins without turning himself into food instead.

"Look uvva dere! Our new Boss!" shouted one of the Greenskins. Hostfede could not pinpoint who that was. There were thousands of them in the chamber, all looking the same, and more horrifyingly, all looking at him.

"Well, he ain't look so green," said another Ork. "Maybe he'z greena on da inside."

"Ohh, shut it ya gitz. Az long az dis Boss give me some good fight, maybe some good teef az well, I'll be with him.

"Da Boss iz 'ere to lead da Waaargh! Hurray!"

"Emperor's hairy ass!" Hostfede exclaimed.

"I can see you have a grasp on their language as well," Lord Drake remarked mockingly.

"What is this all about?" asked Hostfede, addressing Lord Drake with the most serious face he could muster. "Are you telling me my entire army consists of... aliens?"

"I don't see a problem here," said Drake. "You are the general. Your duty to the Emperor is to lead his warriors to battle. Who these warriors are is immaterial."

"Not immaterial anymore when they are all Orks," countered Hostfede. "As in, Orks, the greatest and most common enemy known to men."

"Fine, then," Drake conceded. "Humanity has been at war against the Orks long before the Imperium even existed. For the most part, we thought they were mindless beasts driven by basic needs to kill and destroy. We were wrong. The Third War of Armageddon taught us these creatures can think, and if they can think, then they can be reasoned with. We tried. We succeeded. Why continue fighting the green horde when you can have them as a tool to crush any enemy you want? But atlas, the skill to actually use this took is lacking within our organization."

"So that is why you chose me?" asked Hostfede. "Because I was captured by the Orks, and got away, killing their Warboss and Nobz in the process?"

"We chose you because you possess a skill not commonly seen," said Drake. " Negotiations with these savages often start well but end in a lot of backstabbing and unnecessary bloodshed. However, since you not only managed to communicate with but also make Warboss Bigstompa place more faith into you than any of his lieutenants, you have something we can work with. Also, you were captured by the Orks for more than two months. That should leave enough time for you to learn about their culture and how to blend in. Don't worry, a lot of the Bloody Axes here are veterans of the Imperial Guards. They will give you a piece of advice or two should you need."

"I can see your point in this," said Hostfede. "But should this not be an investment for longer term? Should we not have them tested before sending them into real combat?"

Drake could not help by laughed at his subordinate's naivety. "This is the Imperial Guards, son. Real combat is where all the experiments take place. Better get them battle ready. We will be arriving the warzone in a week."

With that, the Lord Militant departed, leaving his general alone with the aliens.

Hostfede looked back at the Orks. All of their eyes were directed towards him. Just the sight of it made him want to piss his pant. Some of the Orks carried Imperial equipment, even wore Imperial badges and uniforms; whether they were issued such or used force to acquire Hostfede was not certain. Then, he realized they were not filled with untamed brutality and desires for wanton destruction. That they did not charge at him immediately was a good sign. Savages as these Orks were, but that did not hide the fact all warriors of all races were animals at some point. Maybe there was not so much difference between humans and Orks after all. All he needed now was a common goal. The total annihilation of the Necron Tomb seemed plausible enough. The amount of loot would surely please these greedy Greenskins.

"I shall assume command from now on," Hostfede raised his voice above the wild chattering amongst the Orks. "The regiment shall be named Emperor's Greenest. If anyone asks why, put a boot into their gut." Some chuckled came from the Orks. Hostfede was glad he had got their attention now. "Let our background not make any difference. I am human, you are Orks, none of those matters anymore. We are all warriors of the Imperium, and our common goal is simple, we fight and we WIN! The time has come for the two races to come together, and push forward in the same direction. The inexhaustible might of the Orks, combined with the advance technology and warfare tactics of the Imperial Guards, who can stand between us and victory?

"Let our enemy beware. Let them tremble before our might. Let the head of those who doubt our strength be stomped twice beneath our boots.

"All Orks, follow me to glory! For the Emperor!"

An uproarous respond came from the crowd. "FER DA EMPRA!"

"And somebody grab me that banana bundle," said Hostfede. "I am hungry."

* * *

><p>Author's note: I wrote this one because quite a few stories where the Orks being described as more than just mindless killers end in just one chapter. This story is inspired by Perkunas of GorkaMorka, but with some more serious thoughts on the Orks and how they can fight alongside the Imperium.<p>

Anyway, hope you enjoy it. This will be another short story that will be finished after 3 chapters. Enjoy.


	2. Chapter 2

Proud, honored, confused, fearful, Hostfede found himself in a position that went beyond his wildest dream.

The Emperor's Greenest was of massive size, with more than five hundred mobs ranging from thirty to a thousand boyz, each led by a Nob. These were grouped into larger big mobs, each one commanded by, obviously, a Big Nob. Overall, there were approximately sixty thousands of them. The true number was impossible to calculate given the lack of mathematicians amongst the Greenskins and the fact dozens die every day to brawling. Hostfede was worried he might not have what it took for this. Not only was he leading a regiment in battle for the first time with only his previous experience as a company second-in-command, but that particular regiment was oversized as well. Nevertheless, Lord Militant Drake had placed trust on him, for both his uncommon skills and merit, and Hostfede was reluctant to disappoint the person he considered hero.

Fortunately, the Orks leaders prior to his arrival had been keeping things going pretty neat and tidy, proven by the fact the regiment had not embarked on self-destruction. Mobs were divided, Nobz elected and weapons distributed. Hostfede made as little change to the way things were as possible. Even after twenty years of extensive training and learning at Scholar Progenium, he was painfully incompetent for this task and his experience with Waaargh! Bigstompa did not help much. Abiding by the saying, "If it is not broken, don't fix it", he would be content with the current state of his new regiment until better alternatives or chance of improvement become visible.

Of course, that was assuming the whole regiment did not get wiped out before that. After two days of travelling, the transport ship broke from the Warp and entered the orbit of the planet where the fate of many would soon be decided.

* * *

><p>"In the name of the Emperor, bring the Dakka on them, boyz!" Hostfede shouted. The Orks around him responded by pouring a rain of bullets into the ranks of approaching Necron Warriors and Immortals. Scores went down instantly; some would get up, but nowhere near enough to replenish their numbers. Returning fire saw more than a couple of Orks killed, but for any one that died, three more took his place. Most Monoliths and Annihilation Barges had been destroyed or crippled by artilleries in the form of Basilisks from the 14th Arcadia regiment, depriving the Necron of much needed firepower.<p>

The battle was very basic: using superior number to crush the foe without any serious tactical thought. Even an Ork could understand that fully.

"Da metal gitz don't look so gudd," said Grakk, Hostfede's bodyguard leader. The Necron were battered, but not yet defeated. Their remnants were regrouping.

"Then they are about to look a lot worse when we are done," said the Lord General. "All units, forward. Let's show them who are the choppiest around here."

The charge began. Like any good Warboss, Hostfede led at the forefront, his refractor field absorbing any incoming fire like a sponge soaking up water. Not surprisingly, the Orks, his bodyguards included, did not use him, the only person with any form of protection, as cover for their advance and instead went headlong for the gun line, any sense of self-preservation suppressed by the urge to kill in the name of the Emperor. As the gap closed, Hostfede noticed just how different the two armies were: while both sought nothing more than total annihilation of one another, one was loud and savage, hunger for war and seeing war as an end to itself, the other state and emotionless, who committed systematic murdering in the name of ideologies.

Overwatch Gauss and Tesla scored dozens of kills, but it was too late. With fury and zeal, axes and knives, the Emperor's Greenest were upon them.

"The Emperor watches over us this day," Hostfede cried. "Do not fail him!"

As soon as the melee began, the Necron did not stand a chance. Putting his fifteen-hour-a-day training scheme into practice, Hostfede went rampage on the foe with the vehemence of an Ork and the efficiency of a Scholar Progenium chosen. He smashed aside a Warrior with his Power Maul and shot the Plasma Pistol at the chest of another, blowing away a fist-sized hole. An Immortal stepped up, bringing the bayonet attached to his Tesla Rifle to bear, but he was sluggish to say the least. Hostfede evaded the blow as easy as an Eldar running marathon. He was back on the attack before the Necron could raise his weapon again, bashing repeatedly on his head until it was nothing more than pulverized metal.

To Hostfede's left and right, the Orks swiftly overwhelmed any Necron resistance. His Nob bodyguards were crushing Necron exuberantly without any regards to their master, not that they really needed to. Everywhere he looked at, things were going in his favor. The ranks of automatons receded, consumed by the voracious green tide of the Imperials. Power Klaws were lethal as expected, but regular weapons were no less deadly given their sheer number. The Ancients fought on out of desperation and resilient spite, but they were outnumbered seven to one. Reanimation brought some of their number back, only to be slain over and over again.

The battle lasted fifteen minutes. First victory for the Emperor's Greenest, and an easy one that was. That should boost morale for the next stage of the campaign. All Necron were destroyed. About two hundred Orks lost their lives.

Acceptable losses, Hostfede thought.

As soon as the fight was over, the Greenskins began pursuing their obsession with salvage. The Mek Boyz started their work without Hostfede's permission, dismantling anything that can be dismantled. Already, weapons of fallen foe were confiscated and refitted into what the Ork could use.

"Boss, diz thingy killz gudd," said Mek Boss Yazz, indicating the giant crystal being dismounted from the Monolith. "We'z gotta put it on our tankz. Den, they will kill gudd az well. Nah, even betta, much betta. What do ya think, Boss?"

"Do what you think is best," Hostfede replied. "I will not wander into the Mekanicus territory, less the zealots from Mars burn me at the stake for heresy. If it is true that incorporating such technology will help us kill better, then so be it."

"Ukay, I shall make ya proud, Boss," said Yazz, his enthusiasm reminding Hostfede of some overzealous Techpriests back in Scholar Progenium. "And da Emprah, too. He'z gonna luve it when hiz foe getz squash under our gunz."

The sight of the Particle Whip attached on a Battlewagon thanks to a series of exposed wires, pumping pipes, conduits and Emperor-knows-what was a terrifying one indeed. That the Orks had no reverence for the Machine Spirit was reason enough for Hostfede to stay the heck away from that thing the next time it fired.

Despite all the lack of subtlety, the Orks were a loyal bunch, showing purpose and devotion not different from any Imperial Guards or Space Marines, testament to how the new Imperial Creed could be embrace by those other than humans. Hostfede could now see the Emperor's Greenest as a functioning body that can be managed, albeit with considerable effort.

* * *

><p>Within two weeks of the Guards' arrival, the Imperium was met with one uncontested victory after another. As it turned out, the Necron were ill-prepared for this, only having recently awakening from their Great Sleep. A dozen tombs were put to the torch, countless thousands xenos perishing without even seeing their foe. But just as when High Command began to think about where to deploy the regiments after the campaign was finished, things got ugly.<p>

Really ugly.

Uglier than even a Tyranid Hauspex.

A massive Necron army suddenly appeared on the planet, all in battle-ready state, completely unexpected from what detected and analyzed so far on Dorian 7th. Auspex scan revealed them literally materializing out of non-existence. Even as Imperial forces scrambled to make head or tail of what just happened, they were greeted by a flotilla of Necron transports and escorts, which also came out from nowhere. The Ancients' ships were tough, but lacked firepower to take on Imperial counterparts. After a quick skirmish, both sides disengaged as neither was willing to leave their troops stranded on the planet with no means of escaping should defeat become inevitable.

Led by Overlord Daphrakh of the Maynarkh dynasty, the Necron had come to expunge the usurpers and restore the planet to their rule.

The tide turned.

Withdrawing all troops from combat zones, the Imperium dug in and waited for the enemy to come for them. Hostfede and the Emperor's Greenest were charged with the defense of the Estovia Region. The battle was a bloody one, with Necron aircrafts and anti-grav vehicles constantly trying to outmaneuver the Orks. Adding to that, Wraiths and Tomb Blades performed multiple hit-and-run attacks at the back and flank. Each time, Hostfede painstakingly regrouped whatever army he had available and redeployed them to counter specific threat. It was far from the most efficient strategy, but there was no other way. The Orks possessed no tactical mind, and would be gladly to stay fighting even when losses far outweighed any benefit.

The center held, but only just. The right flank was broken through by a group of Triarch Stalkers. Extraordinarily, against all anticipation, the left flank collapsed within five minutes of fighting. Hostfede could not help but find it counter-intuitive. Gurchin's mob manning that flank still had the Necron heavily outnumbered. Applying the same logic which the first battles had been won, Hostfede could not comprehend this. Necron Warriors and Immortals spewed forth from the gap in the Emperor's Greenest line, blasting any Greenskin in sight.

The defenders were scrambling now. Hostfede called for artillery support from the 14th Arcadia, but was rejected. Other regiments were not faring so well either and his was of lower priority. Clearly, the lives of ten thousand Orks worth less than one single Guardsman. The Emperor's Greenest had to make do with their own resources for now. Bigger guns turned to the breach, but even they were no match for the assault by a formation of Annihilation Barges and Monoliths. The Morkanaut roared its last as Tesla Cannon tore it apart from fifteen directions.

The battle was lost.

The order to retreat from High Command came just in time. Hostfede coordinated his troops to pull back, putting all his knowledge of minimizing casualties in the event of defeat into use. The Necron did not pursue, so he had high hope his plan would work.

Luck was not on his side this time. Hostfede was all but shocked to discover, at the rendezvous point, much of his army was had failed to arrive.

* * *

><p>"This is all we have left?" he asked, staring at the Orks in utter rage. "Where are the rest of you, putting your face in the mud and pretending I am not here? Are we still functioning as a whole body here, or have we fallen apart? This is not what Orks are bred for, not dying in this number. I started with forty thousands, and now return with barely fifteen." According to his calculation, at least two-thirds of them would make it through.<p>

The Orks all looked at him bewildered. Not even their veteran kommandaz had anything to say.

"This is unacceptable," Hostfede continued. "Kazgrak, where is he now? Can anyone tell me?"

"We lost contact with him and hiz mob few hourz ago," said Nob Urukk. "Last message sayz he encounta some invizible one-eyed boyz with beamy gunz. Nothing since dat." Hostfede could guess their eventual fate, wiped out by Death Marks.

"Then what about Raggrum?" he demanded. "His big mob of boys number in the thousands and I don't see any of them here."

"He'z not retreating, Boss," said Big Nob Warrak simply.

"Why not?" Hostfede was outraged. "I gave him the order, did I not?"

"He'z Goff," explained Warrak. "He'z always fight till the end, and die fighting iz what he'z and hiz boyz are gudd at. He'z rather be dead then abandoning the field. Ya have to be crazy to expect him to run away, Boss."

Hostfede took a deep sigh. The Orks were complex indeed, and just when he thought he understood them all. This defeat was a huge setback. Many elements could have been avoided if the Emperor's Greenest had been more responsive to his calls.

"This is a tough one we've got here," said Hostfede. "We will have to deploy the entirety of our reserve army next time, but even with that, our chance of winning is slim. No matter, we will try to the very bitter end. Let the Emperor judge our deed. But there are some things I must do before that."

"We cant win diz one, Boss," one of the Nobz raised his voice. Given his lack of control over his excitement, unnatural even by Orks' standards, he was patently on his way to join the rank of Madboyz. The Necron's psychologically warfare was taking its toll. "They'z too strong. Da pointy boyz we beat dem. Da blueskinny we smash dem no problem. But diz one, it iz impossible. We should all run for our livez, or dey will…"

BANG!

Head exploding, the Nob fell where he stood.

"If ya don't surve in combat, den ya will surve on da firin' line," said Kommissar Boss Lorark grimly, smoke coming from his bolt pistol.

"Thank you for that, Lorek," said Hostfede.

"Me pleshure, Boss," the Kommissa replied.

Hostfede needed to think fast. The regiment was under huge amount of pressure at this point. Something was definitely wrong, them being all smelly, dirty alien Orks aside, and he had to find out quickly.

Looking back at Lorak and other high kommandaz, he realized a peculiar thing. A good number of them were Bloody Axes. Hostfede saw the rest of the Orks and found an interesting trend which he forgot to notice before. Checking the charts containing important figures regarding the regiment provided by Gretchins, he found that the distribution of wargear was completely uneven, the hierarchy undeniably biased in favor of the Bloody Axes. Twenty percent of the Orks held two thirds weaponries, half the number of tanks and walkers and almost all the good armor while others had to make use of T-shirts. All Bloody Axes mobs had at least one Painboy, one Mekboy, even if these specialists were not Bloody Axes themselves, and one Rockit Launcha whereas some mobs of others would be hopeless against any vehicle assault. Interestingly enough, all mobs were assigned a Kommissarz to keep them in line…., and all the Kommissarz including Lorek the head of them were Bloody Axes!

Losses in infantry were high, but for some reason three out of four vehicles remained intact. Most high ranking Nobz also survived the ordeal. Apparently, the Bloody Axes came the closest to a proper Imperial Guards regiment. They followed orders obediently. They retreated int face of impossible odds. They smoked and wore Imperial uniforms and medals and ate bananas instead of meat all the time. Unfortunately, that was where all the bananas had gone to, much to Hostfede disappointment.

While this had held the regiment together for some time, it was not good enough anymore.

Time for some changes, Hostfede thought. But fuck you, Tzeentch.

"You there, come forward," he indicated of the Bloody Axes boyz. The Ork stepped up, a bit shaky when facing his Boss. "How many guns do you have?"

The Ork counted on his fingers like a five years old. "One, two, three, five. Five of dem, Boss."

"And how many hands do you have?" Hostfede continued.

"One, two. Two. I have two handz, Boss."

"That is not going to work," said Hostfede evenly. "Give the others three of your guns, right now."

The Ork looked at him apprehensively. "Wot, Boss?"

"You are not going to shoot five guns with two hands," said Hostfede. "Carrying so many guns like that is a waste of resource, a detrimental misallocation while others have to means to engaging at range. If we are to be more effective and more killy, you have to give your comrades some of what you have got." He turned towards the rest of the Orks, saying, "That is going to be the new rule here. Does not matter your rank or prestige, the maximum number of guns one person can carry is two and the maximum number of choppy item is also two. Furthermore, no one can have more than three stikk bombs. Any deviator will be summarily executed, am I clear?"

There was much grumbling coming from the Orks, especially those of the Bloody Axes whose one advantage had just been abolished. But Hostfede would not stop at that. There needed to be equality amongst the forces that constituted the regiment. Implementing a concept as alien as charity on a feral world on the Orks would not be easy, but Hostfede was confident he could overcome, just as he had overcome all the hardship within Bigstompa's prison cell.

Finally, those Greenskins with excess weapons began to handle them to who were in lack of one. That was one issue solved, but satisfactory regimental organization was still a far cry. There was still the need to reallocate other resources so that any mob would possess what they need to repel any threat, or, should it be scarce, have the necessary tool to hold the line long for others to come and help out. The power distance, as well as power concentration, must be breached. The Bloody Axes had maintained their domination for far too long since before Hostfede becoming the leader, and now was the time to put an end to that. Total discipline must be established so that no more Nob could act on their own and die ignominiously in the name of battle hunger. Grotz should take more roles in combat. It was imperative all of these were done before the next battle.

So many things to be done, and so little time to do so.

No matter, Hostfede thought. He had been patient before when dealing with Bigstompa, and he would be patient now dealing with the Emperor's Greenest.

"Yazz, come here. I want you to..."

...

"Kommissar Lorark, we need to reassign..."

...

"Grakk, can you do me a favor and..."

...

* * *

><p><em><span><strong>Author's note<strong>: thanks for the review. This is the second chapter where difficulties are encountered by Hostfede as he managed the unruly Orks. Can anyone note the reference to a particular Commissar in Dark Crusade?_

_**Update**: Here is how Hostfede will look like should he be in a Ork Codex Supplement:_

_**Unit type: **Infantry (Character)._

_**Stat**: Ballistic skills 4, Weapon skills 5, Strength 3, Toughness 3, Wounds 3, Attacks 3, Initiative 3, Leadership 10._

_**Wargear**: Plasma Pistol, Power Maul, Carapace Armor, Refractor field, Frag Grenade, Krak Grenade._

_**Special rule:** Furious Charge, Preferred Enemies (Orks), _

_Voice of Mork and Gork: similar to voice of command. An order is passed when the leadership test is successfully made. No order can be used twice per turn. A single unit can be ordered up to twice. Double 1s results in the targeted unit having Fearless and Rage special rule. Double 6s results the targeted unit taking D6 hits at S4 AP-. Here is the list of orders:_

_Bring the Dakka: All Shootas and Big Shootas of the targeted unit gain one more shot._

_Show them we are the choppiest around here: All close combat attacks of the targeted unit gain the Shred special rule._

_Into the fray: The targeted unit add another D6 to charge and run distant._

_Make every shot count: The targeted unit has plus 1 to their Ballistic Skills._

_Tactical withdrawal, now: If the targeted unit is locked in close combat, it can immediately break off 2D6 inches. The enemy unit it is in combat with then make Consolidate move. The unit that just broke off can perform actions as normal._

_Make them tremble before our might: The targeted unit gain Fear and Hammer of Wrath._

_No quarter, no mercy: The targeted unit gains plus 5 to its Initiative (normally to 7) when making its Sweeping Advance._

_Divide and conquer: The targeted unit ignores the penalties of Disorderly Charge when performing multi-assault._

_Regimental commander: Hostfede can make up to three orders per turn._

_Grot runners: Range of order is extended up to 24 inches._

_Note: While Orks are all Leadership 7, the Emperor's Greenest have Kommissarz to give them Leadership 9 instead. Kommissars have the same stats and special rules as Commissars but with BS2, I2, S4, T4, Furious Charge, Waaargh! and Mob Rule. They have T-shirt saves and no invulnerable (can be upgraded to Heavy Armor for 4+). Summary Execution can be taken instead of Mob Rule._


	3. Chapter 3

Captain O'kari of the Mangalo 3rd had had a bad night. He went through a hangover, more severe than usual, and vomited over his uniform. The pretty girl he met, whoever her name was, turned out a hive rat and stole his wallet when he was not sober. Lacking personal identification, he was forced to call up to High Command who then contacted the Munitorum and had his genetic code checked, his body measured, his old scar in his most secretive place examined; only then could he enter the barrack and get some sleep and forget about his bad night.

But morning was even worse. Waken up by the banging klaxon, he got out of bed and headed straight forward for the battlement, not even bothering putting on his stained clothes. The men and women of his company were scrambling into position, grabbing any wargear and manning any piece equipment they could find. Lieutenant D'pora was waiting for him, the look on his face as grim as any commissar when someone came up with the excuse "a Hormagaunt ate my Infantry Uplifting Primer".

From his binocular, O'kari saw death approach.

Skimming towards him now, across the desolated grassland, were Necron constructs, about twenty of them or so. O'kari was not unfamiliar with land speeder, but where a land speeder required to be driven by a pilot, in this example of xenos machinery, the pilot and the craft were one and the same. Rising from the prow of each of the skimmer's body were the torso, arms and head of humanoid automaton. Looking more carefully, O'kari could see they all had their right arm melded into some sort of ordnance that pulsed with malevolent energy.

The vanguard of the invading force had arrived.

"Form up and prepare to repel them," O'kari made swift order to his troops. To his relief, they had fared better last night and managed to take up fighting position quickly, ignoring the lack of adherence to protocol displayed by their commander. Polas, his vox operator reported back to HQ about the enemy's encroachment. There was no way O'kari could hope to defeat such a foe with a single company, but he could hold them back as long as the Emperor willed him. Or die trying so.

As the Destroyers got closer, O'kari gave the order to open fire. The gun line immediately bristled as torrents of laser shots from dozens of places were unleashed altogether. The autocannon turret added in with its high-explosive shells alongside three heavy bolters, one on the Chimera, the other two operated by two squads of heavy weapon teams.

The Ancients' resilience seemed an insurmountable odd, their metal hides absorbing enough hits that would fell even the toughest of man and still going. Nevertheless, the Imperial's effort was not worthless. Some of the Destroyers were listing badly, their carapace scorched and dented. One skewed sideway, colliding with another and they both fell to the ground, unanimated. As the Necron returned fire, at least two cannons malfunctioned and blew itself and the automaton they were attached to up. Greenish coruscating beams hit the defenders with eerie accuracy, blowing them apart, those hit directly literally ceasing to exist.

"Hold the line. Hold the Throne-damned line!" O'kari shouted. His men had yet to break, but that point was coming. The pressure was too much, even for hard-worn the veterans like they were. "Polas, call command and tell them we need fire support right now. They are…" The captain was cut short as he saw his vox operator dead, his body dissected like some sick autopsy that would have made him vomit had he not emptied his belly's content the night before.

Disappearing and reappearing inexplicably, the Wraiths began to wreck havoc on the Imperial line. The ethereal xenos would shift in when a prey was in sight, lashing out with whip-like arms and lethal scalpel-fingers, only to blink out of existence again in the face of retaliation. Any fire against them was useless, going straight through as though they were not even there. They were the source of horror as much as frustration.

One of the Wraiths headed advanced towards O'kari with malicious intent. Screaming, captain fired his las pistol. The shots did not even hit the target. The xeno got closer. O'kari let out a scream as it materialized in front of him, striking with its whips. The blow suddenly stopped halfway. O'kari realized two pieces of metal resembling a crab claw snatching it and keeping it in place. A second later, the Wraith was crushed in half.

Still shocked by what just took place, O'kari gazed upward and took in the form of his savior: an Ork wearing some sort of parody of the Imperial Commissariat, with skull-bearing cap (an Ork skull, even) and red sash. As the bewildered captain staggered back on all fours, the Ork let out a below, "Alright, ya gitz! Let'z show diz puny humiez how we fight feh da Emprah."

A mob of Orks emerged from the rampart and met the Necron Wraith head-on. At the same time, rough riders from the Rakustin 7th Hussar, mounted on fast-moving bipedal creatures with avian-like beak, charged straight into the flank of the Destroyer formation.

Tried as they might, not even the Orks could cause any harm to the Wraiths in their ethereal form. However, that was not their purpose all along, shooting or stabbing these constructs to death. Instead, as the Wraiths materialized to slay the them, the crafty Greenskins would detonated the bomb he carried, blowing himself up (in good, Orky fashion) as well as his would-be killer. Not all were able to blow up in time before expiring, but those that did scored kills. Fourteen explosions, fourteen Wraiths brought down, thirty one dead Orks. That alone was much more efficient that what the Mangalo 3rd had been managing so far.

To O'kari's astonishment, one of the Orks shouted, "Da Emprah prutekz!" before exploding. He vaguely heard of a regiment that called itself the Emperor's Greenest, a travesty of a name, he had thought. Never had he imagined how much the meaning would be so literal.

Over the grassland, the Rakustins were gaining ascendency. The Necron Destroyers were caught off-guarded and had no effective means of engaging in close combat against. Power Spears in hand, the rough riders made successive attack runs against the foe, breaking their formation and distracting their aims. The Ancients were ill-prepared for this maneuver. Within minutes, the battle was over, every single alien skimmer slain, their bodies sparking lightning and tortured energies.

"Iz ya still surving da Emprah, humie?" asked the Ork to O'kari. The bolt pistol in his right hand was pointing directly at the human captain, resembling a commissar about to execute someone for cowardice.

"Of course I am," said O'kari determinedly. Part of him was still amazed, the other disgraced at the fact that his faith and loyalty were question, much less by a xeno. "The Emperor will guide us to victory for we are His hammer."

"Den get up. Get into posishun. Get ya boyz into posishun while ya at it. And get some Dakka goin'. We'z got a battle to win 'ere."

* * *

><p>"You don't look so good, son," Lord Militant Drake addressed Hostfede at the meeting. "Having trouble sleeping lately?"<p>

"That is of no importance, my lord," the general replied. Truth to be told, he was exhausted from the amount of work to be done in preparation for this battle, at least twice as much as any other Lord General in this room. The fact that somebody (presumably Yazz) ate all his bananas made matters even worse. "I am ready and willing to serve as always."

"I would have trouble sleeping myself if I were surrounded by Greenskins like you," commented Lord General Vulsar of the artillery detachment. "I remember in the old days where we would just maim and kill xenos at first sight and where they would do the same to us."

"Time changes, general," said Hostfede. "We are much less primitive compared to our ancestor, and so are our foes."

"Well said, son," said Drake. The Lord Militant was the only person so far who showed optimism, and Hostfede could understand why. Eighty years living on the fast line, he had gone through thick and thin and everything in between, facing off and besting the swarms of the Tyranids, the Chapters of Chaos Space Marines, the hordes of daemons and many other unspeakable evils. It would take more than a legion of restless death machines to scare him. "While lacking technical adeptness, the Orks are physically and biologically sounder than us humans. They are the much needed extra force I would be glad to have on my hammer. Hostfede, I suppose your boyz are ready for the defense of this hive."

"They are, my lord," said Hostfede. As soon as the Necron overstretched themselves, the Imperials launched a counterassault, inflicting heavy losses and more importantly, stalling the re-awakening process of many tombs on the planet. Seeing the threat as insurmountable, the Overlord had decided to focus all his force on eradicating the human usurpers before going on with the Red Harvest. On that note, the Imperial had returned to defense mode, waiting for the enemy to come for them in a situation where they had the upper hand. It would be in Hive Locryst that the two forces met, in mortal combat, until one is finally destroyed.

"How long have you been in command of a regiment anyway?" asked general Concordie, his eyes staring uncomfortably at Hostfede. The Emperor's Greenest general quickly found himself, living up to the name of his army, as the greenest of the generals in this room.

"Two months," Hostfede replied tersely. "I was company sub-commander before that for one year."

"Your advancement is awfully quick," said Concordie of the Mangalo 3rd with undisguised suspicion. "Tell me, is it because of extraordinary achievement, or extraordinary noble blood, or extraordinary luck that you make it thus far? It took me thirty years of service to reach this rank."

"General Hostfede is no ordinary man for sure," Drake interrupted. "On Taurok, it was him who single-handedly bested an entire Ork warband. Even more incredible was the way he did so from within. I hope your doubts are now gone, general Concordie."

"I may not have seen as much action as any of you here," explained Hostfede evenly. "But what I want in experience, I make up for with knowledge and expertise. Scholar Progenium became my home after both my parents, whose faces I never saw, were eaten by Tyranids. The first word I was able to utter was 'Emperor'. I fired my first short when I was two. I killed a Hormagaunt at five, a Genestealer at seven and suffered two dozen whips for only managing to severely wound a Carnifex with single Krak grenade at eleven. At the age of thirteen, I have inflicted injuries, some of which fatal, on more than a thousand victims bigger than my size. I understand your concern, general, but I need you to understand also that it has been misplaced."

"Fair enough," Concordie nodded, quite impressed by the way the youngster addressed him. "I hope your regiment is also up to the task."

Hostfede's answer was firm, "I hope so myself, sir."

A tremble shook the building. Debris fell from the ceiling and half the lights went off. Not single gentlemen in the room seemed fazed or distracted, for they knew what was going on and how they should appropriately react.

"Looks like the Ancients are less tardy then we thought," said Drake as insouciantly as someone who commented about the weather. The Lord Militant stood up, sword raised and head high. "To battle, warriors of the Imperium. Let none but the Emperor judge out deeds this day."

* * *

><p>The Necron forces hit the bulwark like a hammer blow. From his vantage point above the wall, Hostfede saw thousands of them advancing on the right flank, thousands on the left, thousands forming the center block, a seemingly unstoppable mass of moving metals, their footsteps in unison creating a grim tune to those within earshot. Swarms of Scarabs and Tomb Spiders crawled amongst them. Tomb Blades were at the forefront of the assault. Night Scythes and Doom Scythes filled the sky. Monoliths and Annihilation Barges moved stately behind the infantry formation, ready to unleash fire support.<p>

The Imperial Guards opened fire at the approaching legion. Dozens of Basilisks and Manticores sung at the same time, the effect quite deafening. Huge swathes of the invaders were blown apart. The skeletal warriors were reduced to their component parts, as units of Spiders and Scarabs, too many to count, were eradicated alongside them. Skimmers were tossed around like toys by massive explosions. A Monolith took a direct hit, the crystal on top unleashing voracious energy upon its demise, swallowing dozens nearby Necron warriors. The Hydra joined the cacophony with their autocannons, blasting one flyer after another from the sky. The Tomb Blades were punished heavily by short range stormshard mortars from Wyverns even as they fixed their guns on the defenders.

The Orks added their own fire. Unlike before where every mob had something to shoot from afar, one division now possessed all artillery pieces, much like how the Imperial Guards forming separate regiments for separate roles. The same could be said for all the vehicles. Though all mobs still had access to the basic Trukks, all others were grouped into three mechanized groups, one consisting of Deff Dread, another specialized in assault with the majority of Battlewagons and the last in support, claiming most of the Looted Tanks. These three mobs were assigned with the lion's share of Mekboyz in the regiment. Despite the controversy over his decision, Hostfede could see his reform pay off as more shells were loaded and fired at the same time as before. Though the level (in)accuracy had persisted (they were, after all, still Orks), there were just so many targets to kill. Feral cheers came from his boyz each time an enemy squadron or vehicle was destroyed in good Orky fashion.

The Ancients did not falter in the face of massive casualties, their stubbornness matched only by their resilience. Their formations did not even break despite the holes punched into them, each individual moving at the same speed and with the same intention. The first of the Warriors finally reached the rampart, stepping over the bodies of the Tomb Blades who were almost exterminated at this point. As they entered the battlement, many were blown apart by booby traps laid by the defenders, as well as some nasty tricks by the Kommandoz, but the rest carried on as though nothing had happened.

The Orks met them head on with axes and knives. Though they stood no chance against the Necrons, they bought valuable time for Imperial Guard forces to relocate themselves. Once the evacuation was complete, the he ordered the Orks to break from combat and rejoined their Imperial comrades. To Hostfede's chagrin, a number of them did not obey and were cut down as the Necron force grew thicker. In order to enhance loyalty amongst his troops, the Lord General had chosen some of the brightest candidates from each and every clan that constituted the regiment, subject them to fighting in (non)lethal duels until the victors grew larger and became suitable for the position of Nobz. However, while this worked fine on macro level, many individuals still aspired mindless bloodshed and took hierarchies for granted.

The rest of the Necron moved in. Destroyers and Tomb Spiders sprouting particle projectors blasted battlements, gun emplacements and defenders alike with coruscating beams of molecule-shredding energy and searing bolts of hard white light. Those caught by emerald beams screamed briefly and died as layer after layer of their body were stripped away. Although shot down by the scores, the remaining Night Scythes let loose their invasion beams on the on top of the bastion's wall through which squads of Warriors, Immortals and even Deathmarks were deployed.

The battle was fully joined. Orks and humans fought alongside one another, putting all their differences in race, religion and hygiene preference aside. Hostfede and his bodyguards were at the thick of it, smashing across endless waves of deathless constructs. The Grakk and the others were chosen in the first place simply because they were retinue of Warbosses before recruited. That they all survived (relatively unscathed) while their erstwhile masters always ended up being blown to bits, impaled by Power Swords or stomped to death by a Titan was an alarming sign indeed. Not going to make the same mistake, Hostfede spent time and effort whipping them into discipline and taught them how to watch his back in hectic melee. Other generals had also joined the fray, though, being humans and all, they stayed away from close combat as much as possible.

"Fight on, boyz," cried Hostfede as he clubbed another Warrior to death. He had lost count of how many he had slain so far, not withstanding those that got back up. "Show them strength, show them death, show them how we fight in the name of the Emperor!"

WAAAAAARGH!

On the right flank, the Scarab swarms were overwhelming. The Greenskins were brutal, but not even they could swing their weapons quickly enough to stop the tide of mechanical insects. The Scarabs got into the Orks' mouth and burst open the body from within. Deeming the mob lost, Hostfede, even as he parried the Rod of Covenant from a Triarch Praetorian, the beam from the wargear grazing his cheek, ordered his Burnaboyz forward to put them out of their misery. A hail of scorching promethium spelled the end to the Scarabs as they were burned to crisp.

Numerous Orks dropped dead without a reason. Shots bouncing off his Refractor Field warned Hostfede of the Necron sniper elites. Auspex detected a group Deathmarks occupying the top of the church, their presence hidden to normal eyes but not sensorial scans. Muttering a prayer for forgiveness, Hostfede ordered his boyz to fire at its direction. The Particle Whip confiscated earlier was put into use and within a blink of an eye, the entire section of the building disappeared, masonry raining down long with fragments of Necrons.

A number of Monoliths were teleported in the thick of the fight. One suffered mishap as half of its hull blend in with one of the buildings, causing both to contort and fall apart, atom by tiny atom. Killa Kan mobs intercepted them as they leveled their weapons at the Leman Russ formation. All grotz in the regiment were assigned to a single mob led by Runtherds, giving the lesser Greenskins more autonomy which pleased them greatly, though some lazy Orks was annoyed at having to fetch their own food from now on. Nine tin cans were decimated by Particle Whip, but the line held firm, allowing the Vanquishers to lay waste to the Necron constructs.

Sustained fire from Annihilation Barges and Doom Scythes brought down a section of the wall surrounding the hive from which Necron infantry spewed forth. They were stopped in their track by a Morkanaut whose over-sized frame blocked the breach nicely. The Ork stomping walker swung down with its Klaw of Mork, clearing any automaton who escaped its all-devastating Kustom Mega-Kannon.

"Hwuahahaha," laughed Grakk maniacally as he smashed down his foe with his massive claw. Scores of dead machines laid beneath his feet. "Diz iz da fight I wuz lookin' feh. Deff to da Emprah's foe!"

"That's the spirit," said Hostfede. He and Grakk had gotten along quite well in the past few days, the Nob proving an invaluable asset when negotiating with other clan leaders. While Lorark provided the aura of authority and right to fear, Grakk gave him deep insights that allowed many debates to end without the usual head breaking. Hostfede was too proud to admit their bond was growing, while Grakk, out of sheer simple-mindedness and much to the general's embarrassment, boasted to everyone how close he was to his Boss.

Hostfede and his Nobz were finally able to destroy the Necron law enforcers, though four of his retinue laid dead. His respite was cut short, however, as the next trio of Night Scythes deployed Overlord Daphrakh himself and his council. The Lord was clad in crumpling vestment and wore what seemed to be a golden crown atop his head. Where he walked, fallen Necrons rose to fight again, living metal re-knitting itself like tissue, repairing damaged limbs and reassembling their armored shells anew.

"This is your final warning," said the Overlord in strong-accented Low Gothic. "Remove yourself from this place and I shall spare your lives. This world belongs to us just as it had been million years before."

"Not quite so," replied Lord Militant Drake, stepping down from the battlement. joined him. "This world 'was' yours, but not any longer. You have claimed it for long enough, only to leave it to laxity and negligence. The age of Necron on Dorian 7th is over. It now belongs to the Imperium and His Holy Majesty the Emperor."

Daphrakh raged forward, "Then you shall perish along with every flesh on this planet." The Overlord brought down the War Scythe at his opponent. Drake blocked it with his master-crafted Power Sword. Activating a secondary digital weapon, the human commander caught his assailant by surprise and hurled him back, a fist-sized hole on his chest. The Lychguards stepped into the defense of their master as Daphrakh began to recover from his unexpected injury.

"Their leader is here," Hostfede shouted. "Let's go after him. We take him out and victory shall be ours."

"Roja dat, Boss," said Grakk as he tossed the broken form of a Praetorian sideways. His gaze shifted onward in the direction of the Lychguards now standing between him and the duel of the two leaders. "Lookz like we'z got some obstacle ahead."

"Lorark, tell you boyz the time is now," the Lord General cried into the vox.

Bursting from the camouflage, the Kommandoz, led by the Boss Kommissar himself, assaulted the Lychguards from behind. Lorark grabbed three of his foe with one sweep of his Power Klaws and broke their bodies like chopsticks. Hostfede's Power Mace was blocked by the Dispersion Shield, but his Plasma Pistol took out his opponent before he could bring the Hyperphase Sword to bear.

Drake was laid low by the Ancient Overlord, his Power Sword knocked from his hand along with three of his fingers (one of them already bionic). Enragement consumed Hostfede and he charged headlong for Daphrakh. His blow connected, but failed to deliver any significant result against the Ancient's tough hide. With a contemptuous swing of his Warscythe, the Overlord cut through Hostfede's Power Maul like a knife through paper.

"So weak," Daphrakh remarked with a tone that sounded mocking. "So fragile. And yet, you dare defy us."

"To hell with it!" Hostfede spat, pulling out a melta bomb. Before he could throw it, energy burst from the Overlord's Warscythe sent him sprawling to the ground coughing blood.

"No metal gitz touches me Boss when I iz around!" Shouting defiantly, Grakk jumped in between them. Unfazed, the Ancient's Warscythe impaled on his chest in midair. Crackling lightning rip the Ork's body to shred. In his last moment, however, Grakk focused all his might and deliver one single blow that removed the Overlord's left hand up to his shoulder.

Daphrakh began re-forging himself, but Hostfede was there to make sure his bodyguard's sacrifice was not in vain. He threw the melta bomb in the middle just as the Ancient's arm flew up and became one with the rest of the body. Daphrakh watched in disbelief as the melta bomb was stuck within his body.

"How?" he asked. The situation here was absurd in epic proportion. His existence had lasted for eons, and now it was on the verge of being curtailed by a creature that had not lived for more than thirty Terran years.

"We may be flesh on the outside," said the human general. "Feeble and perishable. But you forget one thing, that our will burns like hot adamantium. That nothing in this universe can never break. We stand united, and we shall stand victorious."

The explosion was massive. In mere nanoseconds, the skeletal king disintegrated, his whole body reduced to molten slag. Not even the most advance reanimation technique could hope to counteract this. The Warscythe, the only artifact left of Daphrakh that was not totally destroyed, clang darkly to the floor, announcing the Overlord's demise.

The Necrons' advance faltered. Any warrior still functioning began to shimmer, their armored bodies becoming blurred and hazy. And then suddenly, the defenders were staring right through them until they were not there anymore. Hundreds were teleported away, but thousands more, too damaged or simply running out of energy to perform phase shifting, were left behind. With Daphrakh dead, the Necrons were as good as beaten. Soon enough, the planet would be free of their taint.

A grand cheer came from the defenders. Humans and Orks hugged and congratulated one another. They cared not the others were not of their species, nor the fact some of the hugs led to broken ribs. Losses were high on both sides, but it was still worth it. The moment was uplifting. They had fought hard together, and won a victory they deserved.

"Good job, son," said Lord Militant Drake as he patted on Hostfede's shoulder with a hand that had only two fingers left (both of them bionics). He wore the same smile the first time they met. "I always knew I could count on you."

Hostfede did not answer. He instead walked towards the remnant of what used to be his most favored personnel. An Ork, brutal and savage alien who thirsted only for war and loot, as he might be, Grakk gave his life in the defense of his master. He was a brave soul. Without him, this victory would have been impossible.

Ignoring the whooping and laughter, exuberance and merriness around him, Hostfede kneeled down and put his hand on the head of his chief bodyguard. The rest of his body was blown in different directions.

"The Emperor protects," he said. "Or Gork. Or Mork." A drop of tear fell from the edge of his eyes. Hostfede hoped no one was there to see it.

* * *

><p><em>Author's note: And on that note, this adventure comes to its conclusion. This chapter is longer than the previous two because I want to make the finale more epic. It also contains more action and emotions.<em>

_Hope you like it. I will be back with my Eldar stories soo_n.


End file.
